


you're a lot of good for nothing

by jupitired



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Henry-centric, M/M, Post-Canon, there's pining but it's not nearly half as tortured as canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-22 21:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17067812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupitired/pseuds/jupitired
Summary: But it’s not just that Headmaster Child cornered him in Henrietta’s most beloved independent bookshop and persuaded him to spend the rest of his gap year running the various events at Aglionby and acting as a model for the younger students — a moment that seemed to confuse both Henry and Child as it was taking place and was all the more mystifying in retrospect. It was also that two weeks into his stay his mother called, asking him to keep a lazy and not very vigilant on the happenings of Henrietta. But most importantly, it was that a seed of attachment had been planted in Henry, and it was taking root at an alarming rate.Or — Henry ends up back in Henrietta and figures out his place there.





	you're a lot of good for nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikenard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/gifts).



> hello! 
> 
> > this was written for the trc exchange for spikenard. if you're spikenard: hi! i hope you like this! if you're not spikenard, i hope you like it anyway.  
> > i'm not quite sure if i did these characters justice and for that, i hope you'll forgive me. they're very well-defined characters and while that makes them excellent characters to read, they can be a little difficult to wrangle in writing.  
> > @alf i managed to put 3 of your 4 specific henry/ronan requests in one scene which was not my original plan but then i realised i could so i did? i hope it's to your liking?  
> > it was a struggle to figure out how to integrate robobee so it's mostly not present. i hope you're not too attached to robobee.  
> > they _do_ get piercing so there's like one (1) mention of a needle. i don't think there are any other trigger warnings.  
> > title is from roy blair's jane. good song.  
> > this is canon divergence in the sense that pynch just. never happened. everything else in trk is the same though. proceed.

In March, Henry returns to Henrietta. His return is a many-headed thing, and much like a many-headed thing, it is not widely understood. Depending on who asks, the answer is different and Henry could spit out half a dozen charming reasons with ease if the need presents itself, but when he asks himself, the only sound he’s greeted with is a weak sputtering, almost like an engine dying out.

Initially, he’s trailing after Blue when the last grains of time spent travelling slide down the hourglass into stillness. Gansey goes back to D.C. to appease his parents and assume the new persona his mother has crafted for him in lieu of the Gansey that had been withered away by the events of that harrowing and awesome winter — Well-Travelled And Adventurous Yet Responsible Young Man: A Model For The New Age. Neither Gansey nor Blue and Henry are fans of it, but it does seem to delight the old money crowd “the same way a particularly well-carved ice sculpture might,” Gansey says to Henry, Blue, and Ronan through the speakers of Henry’s phone one night.

Eventually, at the end of March, Blue leaves for D.C. to intern at a research facility that focuses on plant conservation, an opportunity that she finagled when they’d met a few of the senior scientists who worked there in Venezuela. The day before she leaves, Henry is sprawled on her bed, head resting on his palm to avoid messing up his hair and artfully dodging the clothes Blue throws in his direction as she contemplates what to take with her.

“I’m being abandoned to the dust mites of Henrietta, then,” he says in melodramatic mourning.

“Why aren’t you coming to D.C. again?” she asks. Her tone is half-wry, half-absent minded in a way that could either mean that she’s baiting him or that she’s actually forgotten.

“Because I had a lapse in sanity and/or judgement and now, I’m helping out at Aglionby until May.”

Blue is definitely wry as she smiles down at him, her mouth a smug twist of the lips. “Oh, you mean the horrible idea you got roped into while I made throat-slitting hand motions in the background that you ignored?”

To be fair, Blue had tried to pull him from the metaphorical edge, and now that his regret is coming through, Blue and Ronan have delighted in finding every chance to mock him. Ronan especially, given his deep-seated hatred of all things Aglionby.

“Yes,” he answers after a pause that lays out his — well, it’s not quite shame since Henry has never met shame but it’s close. “That one.”

But it’s not just that Headmaster Child cornered him in Henrietta’s most beloved independent bookshop and persuaded him to spend the rest of his gap year running the various events at Aglionby and acting as a model for the younger students — a moment that seemed to confuse both Henry and Child as it was taking place and was all the more mystifying in retrospect. It was also that two weeks into his stay his mother called, asking him to keep a lazy and not very vigilant on the happenings of Henrietta. But most importantly, it was that a seed of attachment had been planted in Henry, and it was taking root at an alarming rate.

“You can always visit,” Blue says, “and Ronan’s still here.”

“Lynch is off in his fairyland being a farmer and raising his satyr daughter,” Henry replies, shooting for vaguely sardonic and missing it by a mile. It’s the same uncomfortable sensation of being unsure of himself that he had encountered in pursuing friendship with Gansey and his court of magicians and mirrors.

Blue gives him a look that says that she can see through him which is no less than Henry expected. She was already attuned to him when it all clicked together in that toga party and six months of spending every waking and sleeping moment with each other had only enhanced that connection. She must take pity on him though because she adds, “And bringing dream animals back to life.”

He stays uncharacteristically silent for once, his silence made more conspicuous by the quiet of 300 Fox Way briefly emptied of its loudest tenants who have all left to get groceries. Blue turns back to sit beside him and say, “I know you refuse to acknowledge it because there’s nothing going on, but whatever happens you two will be fine. And if it’s not fine, you can always come here and listen to Madonna with Gwenllian. You have to face the consequences of the monster you created, you know.”

“As much as I would to nurture Gwenllian’s newfound love for Madonna, I don’t think any occasion will present itself for such an event,” he sighs. As he says this, he doesn’t feel very Henry-like, but perhaps the reason for that is because instead of being Henry-like, he’s simply being Henry, without theatrics or exaggeration.

“If you say so. Now, do you think this is internship-appropriate?” She holds up something bright purple that has fringes and cutouts and might be a shirt but he’s not sure.

“Absolutely. They’ll love it,” he says, injecting more Henry-ness into his voice. “And if they don’t, you can wear a lab coat. You wear lab coats, right?”

“No, I don’t, but thanks for the dubious encouragement.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Blue packs her things into the trunk of the Green Pig and drives off into the horizon and the future and all the soft, hopeful things she deserves to find waiting for her.

Two days after she goes, Henry starts to feel an itch that’s not physical in the strictest sense but still manages to emanate from somewhere around his breastbone — it’s that same yearning for _something more_ coming back to life at the prospect of mundanity for two months.

Henry gets into his Fisker and drives to the Barns.

He doesn’t inform Ronan that he’s coming to visit mostly because he doesn’t think that any of his attempts will succeed. Although Ronan has become a little more familiar with his phone, forced by the distance between him and his loved ones, he still has a tendency to leave it be for hours, if not days, on end. Henry thinks he should be forgiven for his lack of confidence.

When he arrives, Singer’s Fall is as lush as ever, the green almost too vibrant to be real, spring pushing the Barns into heavenly utopian appearance. Henry was not born a nature person but he has seen enough of it to learn the art of appreciation and this sight is just another lesson.

Henry parks his car beside Ronan’s BMW and as soon as he steps out, he can hear the rumble of Niall Lynch’s magical herd of cows and if he strains hard enough, the barest echo of Opal’s delighted crow-like shrieks.

Although the Barns could never be described as lifeless or lackluster, there’s a marked difference between the Barns now and the Barns from the previous summer, just starting to regain colour after its years of grieving slumber.

The same can be said for the Ronan who bounds up to Henry in the driveway. The biggest change in Ronan’s appearance since he’s taken up residence at the Barns is the dark hair that curls just below his ear that Matthew talked him into growing out. He’s wearing a black muscle tee and shorts and a cocksure half-grin — he looks like a complete fuckboy and Henry wants him.

It’s a want that is separate from the admiration that had fueled his ill-advised crush on Gansey in sophomore year and the _something more_ that keeps him up on his worst nights. It’s a want that stems entirely from the freckles that have revealed themselves on the tops of Ronan’s shoulders and how he carries Opal over his shoulder when she’s stayed up too late and the frantic electronica he listens to.

“Cheng,” Ronan says in lieu of a greeting when he’s about five feet away from Henry.

“Lynch,” Henry returns. It’s the first time Henry has gone to the Barns on his own. It is also quite possibly, he realizes, the first time he’s been alone with Ronan Lynch. He stares evenly back at Ronan like he’s a kitten that he doesn’t want to spook out. “How’s the gay farmer life going?”

“It’s going,” he says when he’s gotten over his initial surprise. “How’s the gay rich asshole with nothing to do life going?”

“Pot meet kettle but it would be going a lot better if I had company that appreciated my lifestyle.”

“You drove half an hour for this company,” Ronan shoots back, spreading his hands in a more smug version of a shrug, tone not vicious enough to be venomous.

“Where’s Opal?” Henry asks, moving past him. “At least then that half-hour drive will have been worth something.”

“Last time I checked she was riding on the back of a purple cow,” is the answer he gets, and that answer alone makes up for the two days of mind-numbing normality. For years, he’d thought that his mother’s underworld of magical artefacts was a miracle unto itself but it was nothing compared to the wonders held in this small universe, like a sovereign country, a landscape all its own.

He treks up a hill to get to where the cows graze, Ronan trailing just behind him. He can see an elderly beech tree, remarkably similar to the one at 300 Fox Way, where there wasn’t one before. No doubt the unwitting product of a dream. When he looks over the cows, they’re a multicolor stain on the wide expanse of the field — sure, some of them are natural shades of black and white and brown, but there’s a red one and the violet-hued one that Opal is riding on and one that’s been painted like the Aurora Borealis and Henry’s favourite: a gentle beast the precise shade of rose quartz that reminds him of the crystal collection his mother keeps in the glass cabinet beside the dining table.

The cows don’t seem like they stink more than usual today so Henry approaches his favourite, befittingly named Rose, and lets her muzzle briefly into his palm before patting her head as she grazes. He’s not really sure what you’re supposed do with cows so he mostly treats them like overlarge, sedate dogs. When he looks up, he finds Ronan with his head turned from observing Opal to look at him.

“Don’t worry, Lynch, I’m not going to murder your cow when you’re not watching,” he says with a mocking salute.

Ronan says nothing, only furrows his brows, then walks off to fetch Opal from her cowgirl adventures. She gets down with only mild protests and then welcomes Henry with an invitation for a fistbump which he dutifully accepts.

“Good afternoon, little satyr,” Henry says with a flourish, grinning down at her. Henry, as a general rule, is good with people because he was raised to be, and good with kids as a results of years of watching over his younger sister in the aftermath of his kidnapping when it felt like the best possible outlet for his anxiety and energy. He’s learned how to keep the younger crowd satisfied and although Opal isn’t really like any other kid he’s dealt with, most of the same guidelines still apply.

“I didn’t know you were coming today,” she says, curious. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“You can stay,” Ronan interjects before Henry has chance to ponder how to most tactfully navigate the situation without imposing himself or upsetting Opal. Henry would almost protest Ronan’s acquiescence at his borderline surly tone but he reminds himself that Ronan Lynch doesn’t lie.

“Well, then, what’s on the menu?”

As it turns out, lasagna is on the menu. He helps Opal in assembling the layers, getting the sauce spread out as evenly as possible to satisfy Opal’s perfectionist whim, and then eating it with the lemonade Ronan and Opal had made the day before. The domesticity of the entire scenario would seem at odds with Ronan’s appearance to an outsider, but a closer glance at the relaxed set of his shoulders and the content, subtle curl of his mouth is as clear a piece of evidence as any of how well he becomes this place.

* * *

 

Of course, the thrum of the night still becomes him just as well.

Opal is at the Barns with enough chicken nuggets to last a week, a switchblade, and strict instructions to stay in the den on the dimmest possibility of someone poking around. Ronan looks blade-sharp cloaked in near-midnight shadows and Henry feels sharper by association. He looks reckless and youthful like a newborn rockstar having escaped from his tour bus or something.

Earlier that day, Henry had sighed a long-suffering sigh and said, “Henrietta is incredibly boring now. I can’t believe we were the ones bringing all the fun.”

He and Ronan exchanged a quick glance that acknowledged the fact that if the others were here they would disagree with their definition of fun. It was still strange sometimes, being just the two of them, and Henry still catches himself expecting to hear a snippet of one of Gansey’s historical lectures, or Parrish’s quiet huff of laugh, or Blue’s snark in tandem with his thoughts. He knows Ronan does too.

Then Ronan grinned, a slow, toothful grin that was a warning sign in itself. “How about we bring the fun back?”

So here they are.

It’s not that the Aglionby populace has become any less Aglionby since Henry graduated but more that they lacked an anarchist figure to rally around — to drive their insolent rebellion that they took so much pride in. For years, that had been Kavinsky’s role, and then the remnants of his pack held the line, and then when they disbanded, there was a void left. Now, it’s just general rowdiness and the occasional vandalisation of the Henrietta sign.

The agenda for tonight isn’t that much more adventurous. Henry’s got supplies for the usual antics: spray paint, a fast car, and an open mind. Oh, and an appointment at a tattooist’s for a piercing because he’s wanted to pierce his ears for the longest time and this night seems fitting. Even if his mother might be strongly tempted to throw him out of a window afterwards.

“We better not get arrested, Lynch, because I have an appointment to keep,” Henry warns when Ronan starts the car with a sound that is the vehicular equivalent to flexing your muscles.

“When have I ever gotten arrested?” Ronan asks, almost indignant.

“First time for everything.”

RoboBee buzzes with agitation, picking up on his rapidly elevating heartbeat then settles on his shoulder when he slides down the window to cool himself. They’re still not far away enough from winter that the night air has a bite to it that nips at Henry’s face and it’s so freeing that he tilts his head back and turns to the side to watch as Ronan deftly swerves the car out of alleyways and Henry chooses to attribute how liquified his gut feels to that.

Ronan catches him at it and laughs, the sound like the scrape of stone on stone, like he knows what it does to him. “Bet Gansey never took you for any rides this wild,” he says.

“No,” Henry says. It’s barely above a whisper, a little breathless, and it feels too intimate, too vulnerable all at once. “No, Dick Gansey The Third has never been one for vehicular mayhem.”

Ronan kills the engine and stops the car with a completely unnecessary screech when they get to the edges of Henrietta and steps out, motioning for Henry to do the same.

“Now, you drive,” Ronan says, arrogant as anything.

“You know I’ve never driven a stick shift.”

“Five months on the road and you never drove the Green Pig?”

“I was in charge of music,” Henry defends himself. “I had two other people with me who were more than willing to drive.”

“Okay, then,” Ronan concedes slowly, “I’ll teach you how to drive. Can’t have you going out into the world like this, fucking disgraceful.”

“Truly touching how much you care about your friends’ wellbeing,” Henry remarks and get into the driver’s seat.

“Exactly,” Ronan agrees. “You should get me a ‘Friend of the Year’ mug.”

“So Opal can eat it when she stresses out?”

“No, this one I’ll keep safe, just for you,” Ronan says, patting him on the knee mockingly.

Bit by bit, Henry gets to grips with it and he can feel how much more control he has over this car — how much easier it is to push to the limit. When he’s comfortable enough, Ronan lets him drive them back into the middle of Henrietta, watches him as he pushes the needle on the speedometer further, and his gaze is burning, burning, burning. _Is this how I was watching him?_ Henry thinks. It’s incredible Ronan didn’t call him out on it. It’s incredible he hasn’t called Ronan out on it yet.

“Wait. Before you go get needled up, we have a quick pit stop,” Ronan says. “It would be a shame if we didn’t use at least some of that spray paint.”

“Yes,” Henry says, languid and mirthful. “A real shame.”

They find a supermarket that bears some of Henry’s earlier work and fetch the cans of spray paint from the backseat. They both look at the blank wall, ripe with potential, mystified by what would be the most memorable. In the end, the idea Henry ends up suggesting isn’t particularly original but it’s juvenile and the kind of thing that would scandalise the old ladies who frequent the supermarket.

“Eat ass, suck a dick, sell drugs,” Ronan reads aloud. They both have matching smiles — a childish delight, if children were normally this profane. “Genius.”

The bell at the door of the tattoo parlour jingles a scant five minutes before his appointment, but it isn’t necessary to announce their presence because Henry’s loudly arguing in favour of Ronan getting an eyebrow piercing.

“I’m just saying, it would totally give you that punk look you seem to be going for,” Henry says.

“What, my tattoo isn’t punk enough for you?” Ronan asks amused.

Henry clicks his tongue. “Not visible enough. It’s under a shirt all the time.”

“You’d rather I walk around shirtless?” Ronan’s arched brow is a dare, even as the tension at the corner of his mouth betrays his apprehension.

Henry is about to say that there is very little he’d like more when the sole person left in the parlour it seems, catches sight of them and asks, “Lynch, is that you?”

Ronan looks up sharply then nods and relaxes slightly, apparently recognizing the woman. She’s almost as tall as Henry and sturdy-looking with full sleeves of colourful tattoos on her arms and undoubtedly more hidden away.

“She did most of my tattoo,” Ronan explains when Henry prods him.

Ronan’s tattoo — the labyrinthine masterpiece that he’s only seen in brief glimpses and snatches. It explains the sense of familiarity, certainly, and at least Henry knows he’s in capable hands.

“Henry Cheng, right?” She directs this question to him. “Ear piercing, you said?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, then turns back to Ronan and sends him a look of narrowed eyes and curved brows. “Ronan?” he says. When he says Ronan’s name, he says it he’s holding a lighter to his mouth and daring him to lick the flames.

Ronan Lynch has never been known to back down from a challenge.

“Alright,” Ronan says, at length.

“And he’s getting an eyebrow piercing,” Henry adds to the woman.

“Okay, then,” she says, taking it in stride even though it is clear to anyone witnessing the scene that this is a change in plans. “Let me just get you set up.”

Ronan’s silence as they wait is not uncharacteristic, it still makes Henry a little nervous, a hint of guilt dripping in at the thought of forcing Ronan to do something he’s not completely comfortable with.

“If you actually don’t want to —”

“I’m fine,” Ronan interrupts. “God, when did you turn into a mother hen?”

“Ganseyman must’ve rubbed off on me,” Henry says ruefully, at which Ronan snickers. It barely takes a second for Henry to get it and he grimaces, unimpressed even if the thought isn’t entirely unobjectionable. If nothing else, the guilt has evaporated. “It’s good to know that at least you haven’t changed since you were twelve.”

“Just proves that twelve-year-old me was funnier than you’ll ever be.”

The woman, whose name is Lynn as Henry discovers, calls for them and ushers them inside. It’s a lot less dim than Henry would imagine a tattoo parlour to be but he supposes he’s been watching too many movies.

“I’ll go first,” Henry volunteers, which he thinks is awfully gallant of himself.

After they’ve worked out the specifics and he’s chosen an earring, he sits down and takes a breath to stabilize himself. He’s not nervous per se, but there’s something to be said for willingly making yourself vulnerable to pain.

“Relax, you’ll barely feel it,” Lynn says with a warm chuckle. And she’s right: the pain is no more notable than a sharp pinch. The weirdest part is getting used to the weight holding his ears down.

Ronan by comparison takes a little longer because he keeps unintentionally moving his facial muscles just as she’s about to go in with the needle. Henry wants to feel vaguely exasperated by it but he knows he’s part of the problem because he laughs every time he sees Ronan attempting to wipe his face of any expression.

When it’s finally done, Lynn gives them a rundown of the aftercare, most of which goes through one ear and out the other for Henry largely because he’s either staring at Ronan or thinking about Ronan’s face. Clearly, past-Henry was not prioritizing self-preservation when he cajoled Ronan into doing this.

Henry barely realizes that Lynn has stopped talking and moved towards the counter out front. He pays and thanks Lynn then follows Ronan to the car, all the while his body is on autopilot. His mind manages to reinhabit his body when he’s been sitting in the car for a solid minute.

Ronan, smiling to himself like he’s thinking of an inside joke, says, quiet, almost like he doesn’t mean for Henry to overhear, “If I realized that it would make you this distracted, I would’ve done this a while back.”

Then Henry leans over the center console and kisses Ronan.

It’s a reckless kiss, the cousin of forest fires and bungee jumping with frayed ropes, all body heat and the unexpected softness of Ronan’s lips. Ronan brings up his hand to Henry’s neck to stroke the junction between his jaw and neck and it’s all Henry can do not to clutch at Ronan’s shoulders. There's a rhythm to this kiss that suggests familiarity or being found, a sensation that scalds and freezes Henry’s blood in turns until he feels feverish with it.

After what could be minutes or hours, Ronan pulls away, audibly struggling to take in an even breath. Henry reluctantly lets him go, his only solace residing in the fact that Ronan had seemed fairly reluctant too.

Ronan looks like he’s steeling himself for something, and Henry’s stomach turns to stone and drops to the asphalt. “You know that I don’t really do casual?” Ronan asks, brows furrowed. He sounds like he’s trying to be nonchalant and it would bring Henry’s heart close to breaking if he wasn’t feeling so much relief.

Because he knows that. He knows that Ronan Lynch has always burned bright and blinding, never satisfied with mere sparks. It’s a grandeur that comes with the territory: that fierceness that extends into every part of his life.

“You, Ronan Lynch, have never been casual a day in your life,” Henry settles for saying.

“Good,” Ronan says, face clearing.

“You know, I kind of really want to lick your eyebrow piercing,” Henry says, if only to dispel the tension, then rushes to add, “but I won’t. At least not right now because that’ll probably give you an infection.”

And Ronan laughs explosively, loud and uncomplicated, and it’s the best sound Henry’s heard all night.

* * *

 

Henry takes a day to process and then drives to the Barns once he’s done with Aglionby duties.

The second he gets there, he can tell something is off. It’s not a warning siren kind of difference, but he’s spent enough time at the Barns in the past month to see how it ever so subtly reflects its occupants’ mood. There’s the barest edge of wilting to the normally vibrant greenery and it’s all quieter, with no one in sight roaming the grounds.

He knocks on the door then, after waiting for a few minutes, hesitantly lets himself in. Opal is eating her way through an apple, core and all, and drawing in the sitting room when he peeks in and faint strains of what he thinks might be Celtic music.

It takes ten minutes to find Ronan, head leaning against his bent knee, on the floor of a room filled with vinyl records and various knick-knacks. When he looks up, there are smudges of lilac beneath his eyes and he has a look of bitterness about him.

“What’s with the… Celtic emo vibes going on today?” Henry asks eventually to break the silence.

“Nothing.” Ronan pauses, pursing his lips like it pains him to say what he’s about to say. “I had a nightmare.”

Henry’s first response is sympathy, but the previous winter has taught him to be cautious of dreams and what they might bring into the world. “Did anything bad come out? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine.” He sounds disappointed by himself, which is — odd.

Henry tries to remember what Gansey and Blue have said about Ronan’s nightmares. “Were you trying to dream something specific up?” Henry sounds out the words slowly like he’s fishing them out of a bowl of alphabet soup. Ronan stays sullenly silent which only serves to confirm Henry’s thought and increase his suspicious. “Lynch, what were you trying to dream up?”

“It’s stupid,” Ronan mutters, picking at his leather bracelets. He inhales and says, “I was trying to see if I could dream up Cabeswater again.”

Once the sentence wraps itself around Henry’s brain, the first emotion he registers is shock then indignant outrage. “Because that’s what we all need,” he says, rather evenly. “Another magical sentient forest.”

“Why do you sound pissed?” Ronan asks. He’s drawing his shoulders up rigid and looking like the contemptuous Ronan Lynch of old and Henry wants to de-escalate but he’s still processing the shock of it.

“You’re right. It is stupid,” he says. “Do you need a refresher on what happened when you were dreaming up things that big? Or should I call everyone else to give you a recap?”

“God, you sound just like them.”

“Maybe that’s because they’re making sense and you’re not.”

“What am I not making sense about?”

“You know,” Henry says, deflating a little, because he knows Ronan would like nothing more than to keep this going until the knives come out when he’s like this. “You know but why?”

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

Henry is sorely tempted to poke and push until his fingers are sticky with the thorny heart of it, but it’s an unforgiving process that’s difficult to undo once the damage has been done. It’s tempting to be reckless and bold because that’s a lot of what he is but he recognizes that gentleness might be more suited to this. Bowing out to let the fires subside on their own.

“Alright, but if you want to make it my business, you know where to find me,” Henry says, giving a half-mocking salute and turning away.

* * *

 

When Henry sees Ronan walking up to him across the Aglionby lawn, he thinks he might be hallucinating. It’s partly because he’d forgotten what it was like to see Ronan exist outside of the Barns during the day and partly because he was there when Ronan had vehemently sworn off ever setting foot in Aglionby even for their graduation.

His throat is a desert and his heart is stuck in it and he feels so hollowed out and yet so full. “Ten minute break,” he manages to say to the others helping him set up things for the upcoming fundraiser, and if he sounds a little hoarse, no one calls him out on it.

He meets Ronan just outside the main hall and then by unanimous unspoken resolution, they move off to stand in the shade of a great birch tree that’s slightly less open than the front steps of the hall.

“I can’t believe I’m back in this shithole for you,” Ronan says grimly after they’ve been standing there silently for a solid minute.

That manages to snap Henry out of his funk and because he can’t help being a little shit, he says, “Aw, you do care!”

Ronan ignores that, save for a flash of teeth that might be a smile. “You asked why I wanted to dream up another Cabeswater,” Ronan says, solemn again.

“Yeah.”

Ronan looks contemplative for a few agonizing seconds then finally admits, “Cabeswater was the last place where my mother was — alive. I don’t know what I thought it would bring but — I thought it might be something.”

“You asshole,” Henry says, softly, a little like a curse because he doesn’t know what else to says.

“Thanks.”

“It’s not your mother but you still have us,” Henry says, trying at something that might be comfort. “Gansey and Parrish and Sargent. And me.” It feels too revealing to be putting himself out there like this so he feels compelled to add, “And there are plenty of non-magical, non-sentient forests for you to gallivant in if —”

This time, it’s Ronan who kisses him.

Henry doesn’t begrudge him the interruption, instead drinking him in hungrily. He hadn’t thought that he was hungry for this — the lively simmer of Ronan’s skin under his hands, the slick warmth of Ronan licking into his mouth, the starved gasps in between kisses — but he was. He is. It’s borderline addictive in a way that Henry was vaguely familiar with, now multiplied a thousandfold.

Distantly, Henry can hear the hoots of the boys walking between classes. Ronan unfurls his hand from Henry’s and Henry knows intrinsically that Ronan is flipping them off. It feels cinematic in a way that deeply satisfies Henry. It’s only when one of the juniors working with Henry marks his throats and says, with audible hesitation, “It’s been twenty minutes,” that Henry is forced to pull away. Although Henry knows it’s mostly for show, he pities the boy now on the receiving end of Ronan’s glare.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Henry says and it’s a promise.

“You will,” Ronan replies and it’s a vow.

* * *

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> > yes the "eat ass, suck a dick, sell drugs" thing is borrowed from john mulaney's the comback kid which happened in 2015. yes, this fic is technically set in 2013. if it helps you sleep at night, assume that henry met the same woman at some point during the Great American Road Trip.  
> > please forgive me i know very little about cars. i'm working on it.


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